i want you to look at me
but never at me, touching
my skin and nothing beneath,
taking the smiles i give and
wondering not at their meaning;
i want to open you and know
every page, but my book was
written in ink that smudged
and dried, and it takes two eyes
to read it—

i want you to fuck me
but never me, never me—

and i lay in bed beneath you, beneath the idea of you that wears a new face, beneath the stutter of staccato breaths, and i am the man who doesn't bother to fix his own mistakes and has the syntax of hemingway— drunk and passionate and wandering...

but i never sobered, and
i want you to know my steps
are practiced, and my quiet is
a lure, and i am a lure, i am
the big fish waiting to consume
your desire, and i want you, but
i don't want you; i want you, but
you'll never have me—

and i have known and will know and strive for and live for— fumbling; i crave your moment, and i want to write a book where i stand atop a glittering stage, and everyone looks away, but everyone knows i'm there—

typing what you'll never
receive.